


still high with a little feeling

by playthetyrants



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I don't want to give too much away, Multi, Murder, Prison, i put a warning just in case, i'm really excited about this one, the violence isn't too graphic, this switches POV because I'm like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playthetyrants/pseuds/playthetyrants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you even care that you did it?" The words spilled from his mouth before he could even think about stopping them. His mind went completely stupid around this man, this psychopathic maniac that was smiling now, his small fingers drumming persistently against the metal counter he was leaning on.<br/>Harry swallowed nervously, trying to think of anything but the feel of those intense blue eyes upon his face. His motive for coming was long forgotten; Louis had him completely mesmerized.<br/>He leaned forward slightly and it took all of Harry's willpower to not lean forward to close more space between them and the glass barrier.<br/>"Do I care? Of course I do." Harry was completely taken aback at his strong Yorkshire accent but somehow managed to keep his focus on him. His pen and paper were laying completely forgotten by his trembling hand.<br/>Louis smirked at his reaction, moving the mouthpiece of his phone closer to his lips, practically whispering now.<br/>"Wanna know a secret?" Harry was numb, completely frozen, his stomach churning and his brain suddenly incapable of words.<br/>"I enjoyed it." </p><p>or the one where Louis does something horrible, and the only person that somewhat understands him is Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still high with a little feeling

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started this a while ago and have slowly but surely been working on it. College sucks. If you can't tell from this chapter, I'm a theatre major.  
> I'm pretty excited about it and I hope you enjoy!

Louis had always admired live theatre performances. There was just something about the entire thing that couldn’t be captured in movie or portrayed on silver screens. The camera sucked the life right out of the scene, slowly seeping into the falseness of it all like a cold, dead spirit.

Despite popular belief, movies were way more staged than theatre performances. You had the opportunity to change yourself onstage, in front of everyone, without them realizing what you had done. Sure, a screen actor delves just as deep into their character as a stage one, spends countless nights studying their script and hours getting into costume and makeup, but honestly, all for what? A few moments in front of a camera? No no, it was all FAKE.

Movies had always been torment for Louis. They didn’t capture half the emotion live theatre did, didn’t capture the beauty of making mistakes onstage and the ability to catch and fix themselves all within a few seconds. Movie actors didn’t understand the tireless rehearsals, the anxiety of show week, the promise of a sold out crowd behind a thick red curtain.

Stage actors portrayed life; full of mistakes and bad nights, but more good in them than bad. Louis always found that movies made him sad, but theatre made him cry. There was just more reality to it.

His blue-grey eyes trailed down slowly to where his hands were resting on freezing cold metal. He swallowed thickly, turning one hand ever so slightly over, peering at the glistening sweat covering his palm. Instinctively, he turned his hand again, pressing his palms into the icy table, as if the two opposing temperatures could cancel each other out. He winced slightly, suddenly noticing the amount of blood that had dried all over his hand and fingernails.

The movement had caused the dark red substance to crack, causing what looked like a dried up lake over his now sickly pale skin, little remnants of it falling back onto the silver table. He bent his left index finger down to reach his thumbnail, starting to scrape away at the unnerving amount of blood that had gathered there, wrinkling his nose as he did.

Couldn’t they have let him clean up a bit? Washed his hands, at least? Louis had never been one that could tolerate being dirty for so long, and his sudden realization of this sent his heart rate back up again. This wasn’t dirt on his hands, not some unfortunate accident involving a mud puddle or his backyard or a football field.

His eyes flickered around again, and his head shot up almost too quickly. The cops weren’t back yet, and he suddenly realized his leg was bouncing uncontrollably under the table, his knee knocking the bottom part of it. He pulled his arms back, his hands falling almost limply into his lap, sweat starting to gather again already. He needed to calm down.

Slowly, his gaze began to move from the now damp spots on the table to his lap, his mind suddenly racing a mile a minute. His dark denim skinny jeans had somehow survived majority of the mess he had created, with only a few faint splatters of crusty red drying upon his thighs. His eyes traveled down to his feet, where his white Converse were now stained a deeply unpleasant maroon color.

He vaguely remembered slipping on the tile floor in his house as he raised his hand to scratch the back of his neck nervously, his fingers suddenly becoming slick in the process. He froze, his stomach suddenly churning, hoping that it was just sweat he was feeling. Trembling, he pulled his hand from back behind him and held it directly in front of his face, swallowing down bile as he recognized the fresh red color of blood coating his fingers. He could suddenly feel the dull throbbing of an open wound on his neck and he took a shaky breath, trying to remember where he’d gotten that from. When did he get hurt? The entire thing was a giant blur to him. He let out a strangled laugh, a short, choked sound that came from his throat and ended just as quickly as it came.

Shaking his head, he instinctively reached up to rub his eyes but remembered the blood last second. He quickly darted his hand back down to wipe on his shirt, his eyes following down and he blanched. His fingers paused over the embroidered “Not Heartbroken” font that was resting just above his heart, the crimson liquid staining the letters as well as the pristine white shirt he was wearing. He almost got angry at himself for it, before he realized with a loud gasp that his entire shirt was soiled with the substance. It was as if a toddler had been given a red paintbrush and had gone entirely mad with it, swinging and flicking it all over the place as if the entire world had been their canvas.

Louis felt his chest caving in, his lungs suddenly stop functioning and as if God had suddenly vacuumed all the air out of his world in a matter of seconds. He wheezed loudly, his entire body now shaking just as bad as his leg had been before, his hands gripping the edge of the table in front of him for some sort of stability in this sudden nightmare. That wasn’t his blood, there’s no fucking way it was all his. Louis could feel more vomit rising to his throat and he nearly gagged trying to keep it down.

His fingernails were scraping against the metal, creating that horrible shrill noise that Louis tried desperately to listen to, trying to drown out all of the thoughts that had suddenly come crashing through Louis’ mind like a hurricane. He squeezed his eyes shut and then open again, choking out sobs that sounded like gasps of air instead. Tears began to fall and he nearly fainted when he saw that they too were turning a sickly pink color from being mixed with the dried blood that was caked on his face. Everything about him was contaminated with the red stuff, his entire being was tainted.

“Tomlinson!”

The sharp sound of a hand slapping against metal stunned him into silence, his eyes squeezing shut out of pure fear. His hands were balled into small fists, still trembling against the metal table. The front of his shirt was suddenly yanked forward, his sternum knocking loudly into the table's edge. Louis’ eyes flew open in shock, his mouth releasing a loud gasp of pain as he was snapped back to reality.

A large black cop, probably about 40 or so, had his giant hand gripped onto the front of Louis’ shirt, apparently not caring about the blood that was now coating his hands. Louis stayed mute, swallowing again, his blue eyes meeting the dark brown ones of the man in front of him. With a disgusted look, the cop shoved him back into the chair, Louis’ spine colliding with the back and almost knocking him completely backward. Louis cursed internally, quickly shifting his neck to crack it loudly.

The cop glared in his direction again, standing up straight and looking about 6’5.

“Ready to talk?” Another voice rang from behind the cop, somewhat softer but still in the harsh tone that Louis probably deserved. A man stepped out from behind him, with soft brown eyes and brown hair, dressed in black pants and and black jacket, a white button up shirt beneath it. His face looked very young but at the same time very worn out, as if he hadn’t slept in a few days or as if he had just seen something very terrible. Louis thought it could’ve been both, but presumed the latter.

The cop moved out of his way almost reluctantly, his hands resting on a his pistol hanging from his belt. Louis had to suppress a smirk, which was actually quite horrible of him considering the mess he had found himself in. The other man pulled up a chair, the metal scraping loudly against the concrete floor, making Louis cringe slightly. His hands were back to resting in his lap, although his foot was still bouncing away beneath them.

The man set down a small notebook and pencil in front of them, Louis randomly noticing that his fingernails had been chewed down.

“Nervous to be talking to me?” Louis nearly slapped himself after the words slipped from his mouth, closing his eyes briefly. Why couldn’t he hold his fucking tongue? What was his brain even doing at this point? He opened his eyes again and saw the cop grip his gun almost menacingly from the corner of his vision before he turned his gaze back to his table partner. The man was staring at him almost stupidly, his face blank of any expression except for a small bit of fear in his large brown eyes.

“Yeah, I am.” He bent down towards his feet, reaching for something out of Louis’ vision. Louis prayed to God it wasn’t another gun and felt a bit relieved after seeing him produce a tape recorder. Silently, he fidgeted with the thing before setting it down on the table between them, his finger hovering over a small button. He repeated his question again. “Ready to talk?”

Louis had always wanted to be a stage actor. He thrived in front of live audiences, he lived to make people laugh. His mum and sisters had always commented on his acting skills, but there was more to it than that. To be a stage actor, you had to be able to completely lose touch with reality for awhile. You had to become your character, no matter what he or she was going through at the time.

A stage actor could be thrown into several different roles within months of each other, whether it be a comedy or tragedy. You had to be ready to live LIFE as it was. Screen actors could take breaks for personal conflicts; not stage ones. Someone you loved died? Get onstage and deal with it. Part of yourself died? Fake it ‘til you make it. Cut your foot open mid monologue? Makes for hell of a good makeup job done by crew, huh? The harsh reality of it was fascinating to Louis.

In that moment, Louis suddenly realized something.

This entire situation wasn’t a show.

This wasn’t an act, a scene right before the intermission of a play. The blood staining his skin and clothes wasn’t store bought or fake. The cop standing with a fully loaded gun two feet to his right wasn’t a fellow actor, and the man in front of him wasn’t an audience member. His entire life, he had been able to relate everything back to theatre and performing. It was just who he was. Suddenly, nothing he knew could describe what has happening. This was actual, harsh, unsettling reality. This was real life, something Louis had thought he had understood through the art of acting and theatre.

He blinked rapidly, trying to fight back the stinging tears that were threatening to spill over his cheeks at any moment. The man in front of him frowned slightly but stayed silent, waiting for an answer. Louis felt this was the perfect moment to give a monologue, a time to send his audience into tears with his moving performance and memorized lines. All he could do, though, was sit there in shocked silence, his face draining of any color it had left in it. He felt as if he had been thrown right into a goddamn Shakespearean tragedy, and his time onstage was suddenly running out. Theatre hadn’t taught him shit for this.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting hot tears drip down his cheeks instantly, his mouth opening to inhale a small breath of air. He sniffled, swallowing thickly and opening his eyes again, not bothering to wipe away his tears. He wanted to speak up, to tell him that yes, he was ready to talk. He was ready to figure out what the fuck had happened to him, what exactly got another person’s blood on his body and most importantly, why he couldn’t get the faint noise of a man’s screaming from ringing in his ears.

But his voice was nowhere to be found, and all he could muster was a simple nod of his head. The man nodded back, acknowledging his agreement and pressing his index finger to the button on the tape recorder. He sat back slightly, pulling his paper and pencil back towards him carefully.

“September 28th, 1983. Detective Liam Payne…”

Liam, Louis wondered idly. That was a nice, gentle name. Liam was the name of that kid in your elementary school class that shared his cookies with everyone at the lunch table. Liam matched those soft eyes that were now boring into Louis’ skull, as if analyzing him for something. But Payne, that sounded menacing. The cop standing on the other side of the room should have that last name, not this guy in front of him. Louis shuffled slightly in his seat, forcing himself to pay attention once again. He just wanted that vile sound of the man screaming to get out of his head, that’s all.

“...in the state of Texas. All of our conversation will be recorded here.” Liam finished his sentence, looking up at Louis carefully. Louis remained silent, his fingernails scraping against each other absentmindedly, scraping off all excess dried blood he could feel. Liam opened his notebook, his eyes flickering down to the page and scanning it quickly before he let out a small sigh and looked back up. The little red flashing light of the recorder was getting hard to ignore, and Louis tried his hardest to ignore it as he stared straight back at Liam.

Liam cleared his throat and leaned forward ever so slightly.

“Louis Tomlinson, do you remember anything about brutally murdering your stepdad?”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments/kudos! Any criticism is welcome! ( P.S. tweet me @fingerkisslou )


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